


Jagged Lines on a Red Canvas

by orphan_account



Category: Original Work
Genre: Age Difference, Heartbreak, Hurt No Comfort, Implied/Referenced Underage Sex, M/M, Mild Angst, One Shot, Unhealthy Relationships
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-04
Updated: 2020-04-04
Packaged: 2021-02-28 19:07:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,113
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23362183
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: Life isn’t a watercolour painting in pastel (and neither is love) – it’s about time he learned.
Relationships: Older Male Tutor/Male High School Student, Original Male Character/Original Male Character
Comments: 4
Kudos: 5
Collections: It's All in the Name (Take #1)





	Jagged Lines on a Red Canvas

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Kazanma](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kazanma/gifts).



“You gotta develop your own style, kid,” Mikey slurs, lips loose around a bottle of cheap whiskey.

It dribbles down his chin as he sets the bottle on the walkway, a trail of loose gravel that cuts through the unkempt backyard. He’s careless, and the glass clacks loudly, alcohol sloshing against its sides.

Jared pauses. He sets aside his paintbrush to look out at the red sun disappearing past the fence that separates the yard from wild marsh. The clouds are red too, and thin. Like streaks of blood.

He gazes down at the watercolour he’s been trying to get right for the past few weeks.

“I like yours, what’s the problem?” Jared says. And it’s true – he likes how Mikey paints. All delicate florals and romantic scenery in pastel, the kind you’d never expect just by looking at him.

Cause he’s leather-clad wiry muscle, gaunt and lean with a scruffy beard and scruffier hair. And he smells worse than his granddad’s ashtray. Not that Jared likes him any less for it. 

“Besides, I'm not a kid,” Jared adds, almost as an afterthought. His eyebrows furrow in concentration that’s half-real as he stares pointedly at the mess of pale colours on his sketchbook.

Looking at Mikey in quiet moments like this makes him feel things. Too many things. Like he’ll choke on them, maybe drown in them. And the worst part is that Jared knows he wouldn’t mind it one bit.

“I’m going to college in two years. First one in my family,” he says, when there’s no reply. Jared straightens his back and sneaks a glance at Mikey, who’s never been to college.

But Mikey just shrugs. “Yeah, whatever, Red. Still a fucking kid for now,” he says. “And college don’t make you an adult.”

Jared stiffens. He hates the nickname – it’s something silly his dad has called him since he was five; makes him feel like a child. He wishes he’d never told Mikey about it.

But maybe Jared still is a kid after all, because he pouts and flicks dirty paint water Mikey’s way. It splashes, splattering across his own fingers, and then Mikey’s clothes.

“Hey, hey, hey! Watch the leather!” Mikey grunts as he shuffles away.

And it might be because he’s kind of tipsy, or it might be because he’s lost in his own thoughts like he always seems to be unless they’re doing it – but his hand hits the bottle, and it topples over.

Whiskey spills onto the grass, where the ants will come for it; lands on Jared’s jeans so that his knee is wet through the ripped denim.

Mikey doesn’t bother apologizing, and neither does Jared. They both know the leather’s faux, anyway.

It’s Jared’s turn to shrug as he goes back to painting water lilies. Or tries to, at least, in that style Mikey makes look so easy when he lets Jared watch him paint.

Mikey should do that more, Jared thinks. He’s supposed to be his art tutor and all, but spends most of the time complaining about how Jared has no identity and his art fucking screams it.

Anger spikes in Jared’s veins, but he ignores it. Whatever.

Cause just like they both know Mikey’s leather is fake, they both know that Jared doesn't need an art tutor. Mikey says art isn’t something that can be taught in the first place.

But even if it could be, Jared’s going to study engineering. Going to be a mechanical engineer, and take over his dad’s auto shop. Grow it into a proper business with proper credentials.

No, Jared _wants_ Mikey. And that’s why he’s still here; sprawled across the dirt beneath a bloody sunset, drinking whiskey Jared bought him with his own pocket money.

He takes another swig of it. There’s just a bit left in the bottle, almost empty after the spill.

Apparently Mikey isn’t over it, though, since he glares at the stains on the white muscle tee below his jacket, giving Jared the finger.

“Damn, really are a fucking kid, aren’t you?” he says. He wipes his mouth on his hand, then wipes his hand on the grass. “I have a date tonight. Can’t show up looking like a mess.”

And Jared presses the paintbrush down so hard, bristles break. The water lily becomes a bright pink circle that smears into the pond.

He can’t have heard that right. Because if he did, he’s going to barf.

“What?” Jared asks, voice shaky instead of mad. He stares at his ruined painting without seeing it; blood pounds in his ears and makes Mikey’s reply, a loud, low rasp, sound faint.

“You heard me right, Red. I have a fiancée. Damn fine man,” Mikey says, drawling the i in fine.

And then Jared’s spilling hot tears onto paper, brush falling from his fingers. The watercolour is covered in bleeding splotches.

“But,” he chokes – there are so many things to say. Too many things to say.

 _You never told me. You let me live a lie. You let me love you_.

“But you were my first – my first time,” Jared finally stutters, cheeks ablaze behind his tears. And it’s true – he’ll never forget that day, months ago at the start of summer.

They fucked out here, in the backyard; bodies bare in the heat until all that Jared knew was the taste of sweat on searing skin, and he’d felt more whole than he ever thought he could.

Jared raises his head. He watches Mikey down the last whiskey. His Adam’s apple bobs; Jared realizes why Mikey doesn’t let him leave hickeys.

Mikey licks his lips, and then meets Jared’s gaze without flinching. “S’ why I said you’re a kid, Red. A kid. Got a hellufa lot to learn.”

Jared opens his mouth but says nothing. He feels ashamed, even though it wasn’t him who hid all this.

He doesn’t get a chance to find words, either, because the putter of his dad’s old pick-up truck drowns the noise of night-bugs – he’s home. When the front gate creaks open, Mikey stands, swaying slightly.

He tosses the bottle of whiskey over the fence before jumping over it, too. The tutoring session was supposed to end three hours ago, after all.

Mikey has no reason to stay here. No excuse, and no reason.

Still, as the squelch of his footsteps across the marsh starts to fade, Jared’s lips move, speaking words that _he_ has no reason to say.

“You’ll be here next Friday, right?” he calls. 

Mikey’s footsteps stop. It’s silent for too long. Long enough that Jared almost throws up right there, on the painting that’s impossible to fix. Then –

“Yeah. I’ll be around, Red.”


End file.
